Poker Night
by EleanorK
Summary: An injured Daryl finds himself in an unexpected situation. - takes place in the winter of S4


It'd been two weeks since he'd broken his wrist, slipping on an icy step from Tower Two, and Daryl was going crazy. Not just because he was used to going out and doing things, and that he worried he'd fucked up his arm enough to interfere with being a good shot anymore. It was just that there was nothing that he could do worth a damn hanging around the prison. He'd helped with food prep, and hated it. He'd tried to hang out laundry, and hated it. He'd taken watch, but using a gun bothered him; it was too fucking loud. Loudness in general annoyed him.

And he couldn't ride his bike anymore on runs. They'd let him drive the car on one, but he'd felt like such a pantywaist, waiting in the car with Rick's gun. A liability. No one said it, but he knew. He could feel it.

Since that run, he'd been holed up in his cell, sleeping and drinking, mostly. Acting like his father, being snarly when anyone came by to ask him how he was doing. Feeling less worthy of the meals he ate, tonight he'd skipped dinner. Wondering how the fuck they were managing without him hunting. He and Rick had just put up that deer stand up in the trees outside the fence beyond Tower Two. All for not, now that he couldn't climb it.

It bothered him that of all the shit that had gone wrong in the world, breaking his wrist was shutting him down like this. As if it were the one thing he couldn't deal with. Even being shot. Even being hungry. Even Merle dying.

"You missed dinner," Carol said, walking in his cell and setting a bowl of soup on the overturned box beside his bunk. She turned up the propane lantern in the corner so it wasn't so dim and lifted up the bottle of whiskey that had been keeping him company as if to see how much was left. He felt a pinch of annoyance at that. But didn't say anything. Carol seemed pissed.

"Wasn't hungry."

"Eat it," she said. "It's a waste otherwise."

_I'm a waste otherwise,_ he thought. But he sat up and picked up the bowl anyway. He was a little dizzy-drunk, and eating made him feel sick, but he didn't want Carol to see that.

She sat down opposite of him, pulled the box over and set it between them. Then she started shuffling a deck of cards.

"What the hell?" he asked.

"They're cards," she said. "We're playing."

Daryl sighed. "So what's this? Poker night?"

"Not poker," she said. "I'm a terrible poker player. No, we're going to be simple. Let's play War."

He finished his soup and stared at her while she fanned out the cards. She looked grim and tired. Bundled up in layers, her knife at her belt. Her hair was getting longer but she still kept it pinned out of her face and now she wore a hat. All of them did, she and Beth had knitted them, all the same grey-green color. He was wearing one of them now; it was cold in the cell, now, in winter.

He hadn't played War since he and Merle were kids, and the loser would have to do the other's chores. He lost a lot, because Merle cheated. As he did at most things.

Carol didn't cheat, though. Or speak. She just snapped the cards down on the box. Like she was being paid to do this, spend time with him like some worthless old broke-dick in a nursing home. Forced, maybe, by Herschel or Rick, to cheer him up. Probably because Carol was never afraid of him in the way the others were. He didn't know if this was because she was stubborn and didn't see the reasons everyone else saw to avoid him, or if she just didn't find him that intimidating.

"War," she said. They'd both laid sevens. He'd just been sitting there like a dummy, not getting that he needed to do something, while she'd spread out her challenge already, holding the card she was about to lay to her chin.

"Sorry," he said. Quick laid out his challenge. She laid a jack; he laid a queen. He felt like a dick, then, sweeping up the cards. Like he hadn't earned it.

She picked up his bottle. Sniffed it. Then she took a little drink. He didn't expect that. Carol wasn't much of a drinker. Not that there was much call for it; life had a schedule now that required stone-cold sobriety most times.

He grabbed the bottle from her.

"Don't want to share, huh?" Carol said, eyeing him while he took a slug. A big one. Bigger than hers. He could tell she noticed. Her mouth went into a sideways line, a kind of half-smile. Like she was about to give him a lecture. Tell him something true and firm and not let his grouchy response affect her.

But they just kept playing, until he had most of the cards, and she had a thin stack.

"Come on," he said. "Forfeit already."

"I still have cards."

"But I have all the aces."

She shook her head no. Stubborn woman.

"Come on, Carol," he said. "Jesus Christ, this is stupid."

She laid a queen, and so did he.

"War," he said, and this time she won the sweep, a three to his two.

But before she gathered them up, he stopped her hand against the cards.

"New game," he said.

She looked at his hand over hers for a second. Then looked up and he moved back, grabbed at the cards. She raised an eyebrow at him. Like he was some bratty kid pitching a fit and she was almost out of patience.

"Slap-Jack," he said.

"Oh, come on, Daryl," she said.

"You picked the other time," he said, shuffling up the cards as best he could with one hand, his wrist still in the sling Herschel had made him wear.

She took another drink. Then, with her boot, she kicked the box out from between them.

"Piece of shit thing," she said. "Floor's good enough."

"Floor's cold," he said.

She looked at him, sharp. As if to say, you pussy. So he lowered from the bunk to the floor, too. And it was cold, just like he'd said. But he'd freeze his bony ass off before he'd complain.

They started laying the cards in the space between them and he regretted suggesting this game. Pretty hard to lay cards and smack at them with only one working arm. She rapped him good twice before she stopped and took another swig of the whiskey.

"Getting a little shine on, huh?"

"Goes down better once you've had a few sips," she said.

He smiled down at the cards, in spite of himself. Merle always used to say that, too, back when they were kids and sneaking the old man's booze. "Quit curling your lip, fag," Merle would say. "It'll get sweeter after a time."

She got the next jack, and then he got the last one and she dropped her cards into a pile as if to quit.

"Terrible game, Daryl."

"What did you want? Go Fish?"

She shrugged. Stared at him.

"Hey, you're the one who came in here," he said. "There's better company out there. You know where to go."

Carol tilted her head back, stretched her neck. She uncrossed her legs and set them open, in a v, her boots pointing opposite directions.

"I don't feel like being with the others. And I'm getting a cramp from knitting," she said. "And seeing as we're almost out of wood, I can't boil any more clothes."

"You can run the generator," he said.

"I like to save that for hot water."

"Who's got the baby tonight?"

"One of them, I don't know. I asked for the night off," she said. "And she's hardly a baby."

"Try telling her that," Daryl said. "Her feet barely touch the ground, so many people holding her."

"That's good for little girl to have," she said. "Somebody to hold her. There's never enough of that, for a little girl."

Daryl didn't know what to say. He guessed she was thinking of her own daughter, dead now for what? Almost two years? Carol's smile was gone and now she was looking out the cell door. As if she wanted to be gone, too.

"Been reading to the other kids the past few nights, anyway," she said. "Doing school things. Teaching. Taking some of the little ones to my cell the last few nights. So many nightmares. Can you imagine? Being that age and living through this?"

Daryl shook his head, took off his cap, and scratched his head a little. He offered her the bottle, and she took it, took another small sip, then wiped her mouth. Her fingernails were short & a little dirty, but she did it – sipping, wiping, clinking the bottle on the cement floor between them – so lady-like. If there was an elegant way to sip off a whiskey bottle and wipe off the dribble, Carol had achieved that. It kind of amused him, in a sad way. How she did things like that, as if she was stuck-up and fancy one second, and then she'd tell the truth so bald the next. Maybe that's why he didn't ever scare her. Maybe she'd just been scared enough in this life and didn't have it left in her to spook any longer.

Maybe she didn't have anything else left to lose.

"So, Herschel send you?" he asked. "Or was it Rick?"

"Nobody sent me."

"Yeah, right."

"They didn't," she said, still staring out the cell door. "I can't come here and play some cards? Have a drink? It's my night off." She laughed. "This is like my weekend," she said, exhaling. "My weekend. Where I can sit here with you all night and drink this awful stuff and go to bed whenever I feel like it."

Sounded like nothing left to lose for sure now. But having nothing left didn't seem to lighten her. It hadn't lightened him.

What he did next, he did without thinking. It was like the snap of the bolt when you heard a rushing sound through the brush that couldn't be anything but an animal. You just let it go and you didn't think. With his good hand, he plowed away all the cards and grabbed onto her ankle. She turned her head from cell door at his touch and that's when he did it. Just reached up her thigh with his good hand and slid toward her. Lifted his hand from thigh to hip, to under her ear, resting his palm where her shoulder met her neck. Her head tipped back, almost lazy, looking at him like she expected this, had been waiting for it, and that's when he kissed her. His fingers slid along her jaw, the skin there so smooth. Just like he'd imagined it would be. This Carol was the one he wished for. She was hard because she had to be, but he wished she could just be soft sometimes. For him, at least. Be someone who could have tears for the world, instead of this hard, sad woman who drank his poison and looked out the door of his cell with a thousand-yard stare.

Then he stood up, and lifted her by the hand off the floor. He didn't know what to do next. It was strange – was he going to ask her to fucking dance a waltz or something? He was an idiot about women. And he was half-drunk. And he only had one working arm. But still. Fuck if he would let her go now.

She looked up at him. The thousand-yard stare gone. Or maybe still there, but now it went toward him and it made him shiver, down deep. Though she wasn't quite smiling, she looked like she was happy about this. Approved of the idea. He liked it when Carol approved his ideas. Anyone approving of his ideas, really. But her approving was the best, because she didn't go on and on about it.

"This all right?" he said. Sounding a little too hoarse. Like his nuts hadn't dropped. Now he was the one who looked away.

She didn't answer; she just kissed him, her eyes closing and he shut his eyes quick, too, like they both needed to be in the dark for this, like maybe she had to do that so it was easier for it to happen. Anything that eased this, he was all for. Her mouth tasted like whiskey, which was just fine with him. Her hands curled around his neck, her nails scratching softly through his hair. That, too, was fine. Better than fine. She lifted up on her toes, just a bit and he could feel her body against his, and it felt like everything about her was saying Yes. Yes, Daryl.

He wanted to do everything, all at once. It had been a long time since he'd done anything like this, and he couldn't decide where to go first, especially with a bum wing tucked against his chest. He felt like he was losing his balance, his hand in the sling curling into a fist with frustration about all he wanted to do. Wanted to feel. So they just kept kissing, because that was easiest. And he fucking loved it, besides. Her tongue in his mouth. Everything, so good. He knew he needed to settle himself the fuck down if this was going to go right. Nobody wanted things like this to go too fast. No woman did, at least.

She pushed him toward the bunk and said, "Sit down, okay?" and he ducked under, and he wasn't sitting, he was laying, and he wanted to clear that up, say something about it, in case that wasn't all right with her, laying down right away. But she just pressed herself over him and it didn't matter and that was why he loved Carol so much, because she just made things slide easier like that sometimes, without needing a bunch of explanations or words.

She went back to kissing him, but then it was like she remembered his wrist and pulled back. Her knit cap was coming off and he whipped it away with his good hand.

"Daryl? Should we…?"

"Close the door? Wish we could," he answered back.

She laughed, kissed his chin, his neck. Her fingers slipped under the collar of his thermal.

"No, I mean, should we move so you're not…?"

He put his good hand on her hip and she eased off him, until she was inside the bunk, her back against the wall. They both lie on their sides, their heads tucked together.

"This better?"

"Yes, Daryl."

"Good," he said, and he kissed her. Now it would be his idea again. His good hand reached under her shirt and he pushed against her and it was, goddamn, it was good. It was good, she was here and she was safe and if only the door was closed. Maybe…

"Don't worry about it," she said, and he stopped worrying. His hand closed over her breast and she sighed and he wondered if she was some kind of psychic, how she knew what he was thinking and knew how to make him quit thinking it. And then she made him continue not thinking it by taking off her shirt and unlatching her bra, which she did from the front, and which he would have never known, and probably would have struggled with, only having the one decent hand and then he just couldn't stop kissing her there, on her breasts and belly and everywhere. She smelled like the soap they used to wash laundry, she smelled like being at home. Like everything safe on the inside, where he didn't have to scan the horizon for danger.

"Just a second," he said, after a bit. His dick was aching hard, and he wanted to strip her clothes off, see her all the way, touch her everywhere, but he reasoned it wasn't fair to be covered up himself. Besides the sling, he wore his flannel, and a sweater, some damn thing with a reindeer on it that they'd got in a run, which he had to wear when he lost to Glenn playing poker and everyone teased him once he'd put it on. But once he'd seen how warm it was, he didn't give a fuck about style anymore. Under the reindeer sweater, was his thermal and another t-shirt, besides, and it was too much. He just wanted to feel her, skin to skin. Finally.

He stood up and took off the flannel, then went to unhook the sling. His dick poked out the front of his pants in a terrible way, but maybe she didn't see. Maybe the light from the lantern wasn't enough.

Maybe she didn't care.

She stood up, then, too. Wearing no shirt. He wanted to cover her, then, his eyes on the door. But she just helped him with the sling, and then pushed up his thermal and his t-shirt and pressed her mouth in the center of his chest and it felt so hot, and good, that he didn't care.

"Turn the light down if you're worried someone'll see," she said.

"I don't care who sees," he said. "Let 'em see." He lowered his bad wrist to his side, slowly, and grabbed toward her with the other arm, running his fingers up her bare spine, feeling that fine smooth skin again, now just a little sweaty.

Good. He'd made her sweat. And he'd make her sweat more. They kissed again, and he felt her breasts against his chest. She was licking his nipples, which tickled and he almost told her to stop it, just for that, but it felt too good, and plus, what kind of pussy waved off a woman licking you?

Then she dropped down to her knees.

_Jesus Fucking Christ._

But she was only undoing her boots, unlacing and stepping out of them, pulling off her socks. He stood above her, his dick practically poking her in the face, and looked at the ceiling. Wanted to laugh. Then he felt her hands on his jeans, undoing the buttons and then reaching for his dick, which was right there, no pause, since he never bothered with underwear anyway. Not before the world changed and not now. Just another thing to wash.

"Fuck," he said, as she pushed down his jeans to his ankles.

She put her mouth on his dick and sucked it. But just for a minute. He nearly tipped over as she stood back up.

"Get them things off," he said, his one hand reaching toward her pants.

She slid them off and then she said, "I'm not going to take your boots off, Daryl. Why don't you sit down and do it yourself?" He couldn't see her face but it sounded like she was smiling.

He nodded. He felt a little dumb. Not that he'd expected her to do that, but it was kind of dumb, him not doing anything about his own damn boots. This kind of thing was why he and women didn't mix it up that much. He sat down on the bunk and she stood before him, her panties right in his face, and he could barely look down at his laces. Could barely undo them fast enough, his one hand working like crazy. All he wanted to do was put his face right there, right in that red silk.

She smiled down at him, her hands on his shoulders, feeling his arms and he'd barely shucked off his jeans and boots when he grabbed her and pressed those panties to his face and breathed her in and she sighed and rubbed his head and he said, "Come here already, dammit."

She fell on him, this time careful of his wrist, which he put above his head, since it was useless as fuck anyway, and starting to hurt a little, the booze he'd drank not doing much for that as he'd hoped.

"Daryl."

"What?"

"You're naked and still wearing socks."

"I don't care."

She laughed and they kissed again, and he touched her, everywhere now, his hands slipping under her panties to feel her ass and it was good. She might feel soft, but underneath she was all muscle. All hard work and never any bitching about it and he loved that about her.

She shimmied out of her panties and he could feel how wet she was. Slippery under his fingers. Now he laughed. Felt like singing.

"Goddamn, you feel good," he said, louder than he meant to.

"Shh, do you want everyone to hear us?"

"I don't care if they hear us. I don't." His hand was working her now, and she made sounds that were delicious and lazy and relaxed and he realized he'd never heard her sound like that. Carol, in his bed, sighing so sweet, all over him, all his. Carol, relaxing. Carol, not worried.

"Hey. Carol. You want to…?"

"Yes."

"I don't have nothing for it."

"Feels like you do."

"Funny. You know what I mean."

"You don't need anything," she said. "I'm fixed. Been fixed for a while now. Because, I didn't want, you know, with Ed…"

"Okay," he said. He didn't want Ed's name in his bed. He didn't want Ed or the thought of him, even, anywhere near them.

He licked her breasts, one at a time, her nipples in his mouth, and then he couldn't wait. He couldn't. He stopped and held her hip with his good hand and said, "You ready?"

"Yes."

And she fitted herself over him, and then he pushed up into her, and he thought he might come, right then and there. Because it was perfect. Good and tight, like nothing else. Nothing else ever felt like this, and he always forgot it could feel that way, so much softer and wetter than his hand ever could, and he thought he was a fool for not getting to this sooner. A goddamn coward and a fool. But he'd never been a man who could charm women into sex, and even if he had been, it felt like a lie or a trick. Not worth it. He wanted them to want it, just as he did, no bullshit. And the way Carol moaned and sighed, he knew it was real for her. That it felt as good to her as it did for him. And so he enjoyed it, her body above him, trembling as he moved back and forth, his hand on her hip, steadying her, keeping her at an angle so her head wouldn't knock the upper bunk.

"Daryl, I…"

"What?"

"Just, nothing. Keep going."

Then he knew he would come. Could come, at any minute. And he wanted her to keep enjoying it. Didn't want to be another disappointment for her.

"Just a second," he said, and he pushed her off, her face toward the wall, and then he went at her from behind, and her hands reached out toward the wall, palms flattened against it. With his good hand, he reached around, slipping into the spot above where he fucked her, feeling for the little notch, that place where he knew the whole point was for a woman. Hoped he was getting it right.

He could barely keep it up, but he waited until she made the good sounds again. Waited. Pushed up into her, farther than before. The angle from behind was much deeper. She made a kind of cry and his nuts jumped up his neck, practically.

But then, she didn't do anything else, and it was just him, his dick and his hand, trying to make something happen. Until he felt her hand, over his. As if to show him.

_Jesus Christ._

He let her show him. Slow, at first. Then fast. She started breathing very hard. He stopped pushing into her and just listened. Licked her neck. Let her hand move over his, her ass grinding into him, showing him what she liked.

"Go on," he said, when it sounded like she was holding something back. Her hand gripped his, their fingers spread together, over all her wet heat.

"Do it for me," he said.

Then she cried out, very loud, and her muscles tensed as he felt it happen. No question about it. No more waiting. He slammed home into her and let it all go, saying her name into the back of her neck.

They didn't move for a long while. He couldn't. He wanted to fall asleep, just like this, still inside her, holding her, feeling her breathe next to him all night. She was limp against him, but breathing hard. Her hand still over his, his over her, all wet and warm.

_God have mercy._

But then he heard movement, footsteps. People coming back to sleep. He could hear someone talking softly to Judith, as she was toddling now, encouraging her along. Carol twisted around and he slid back from her, out of her warmth, and quick turned off the lantern so they were in darkness, and the clothes all over the cell floor less obvious. Then he rolled back into the bed and pulled his blankets over them. Carol was curled up tight, nervous, facing him now, her hand clamped together over her breasts.

"What…"

"Shh…" he said. He kissed her, as if that would quiet her more, and she ducked her head under the covers and then he laughed, too, low and under the blanket, as if it mattered if they were caught. He didn't care if they were caught. If anyone knew. To him, it wasn't anything to be ashamed of. But he didn't know if she felt the same. Didn't want her to be embarrassed. Maybe she would be. And he didn't want to know it if she was.

They waited, hiding under his blankets, listening as doors clanged closed, footsteps stopped, bunk springs twanged, talking quieted down. Then he flopped on his back, his wrist tucked against his chest.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"A little," he said. "Whiskey helps."

"You need some medicine. I can…"

"Not now," he said.

She clutched up beside him, her hands sliding over his chest. Fiddling with the hair there.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

He smiled up at the bunk. He'd never thought he'd have this, Carol in his bunk. Carol, naked beside him, her legs sliding between his. Her toenails scraped his leg, and then his socks.

"Daryl, you're still wearing your socks."

"So."

"So?" She poked him. "It's cute."

"Nothing cute about it, Carol. Who's got the warm feet here, huh? It ain't you."

"Oh shut up."

She kissed him. He felt incredibly lazy. Like it was both their nights off. Like he could sleep a million years and dream of nothing wrong for once. Like when he woke in the morning, he'd finally feel like he was home.

But after a while she stirred. He'd drifted off, but he could feel her climbing over him, hear her collecting up her clothes in the dark.

"You okay?"

"Fine. Just go to sleep."

"Where you going?"

"Back to my cell. I've got breakfast shift tomorrow."

"You don't have to go."

She knelt beside him, touched his face. Kissed him, on the nose and the cheeks and the lips.

"I know. But we'll both sleep better in our own bunks."

"You feel bad or something?"

"No," she said. "I've never felt better. But I'm not ready to share you with the whole group."

"Oh really?"

"No."

"Why do you reckon it matters to them?"

"It matters to me," she said. "I want to have one thing that I own, just me. And now I have this."

"What's this, exactly?"

"You know what it is. You know exactly." She poked him in the chest.

He laughed, softly, grabbing for one of her hands.

"Poker night, then," he said. "Same time, next week?"

"Yes," she said. Squeezing his hand back. "It's a date."


End file.
